Page 27 of Hunted

He only nodded, trying to focus on driving, trying to work out his next step. Revenge. Justice. The blood and pain and death he was going to inflict on White. Those should be the only things on his mind. Ugliness, blackness, violence.

“Tell me about her,” Lexi said softly, and her voice was like a whisper of music, a soothing melody that played through the noise of hate and rage in his heart. “What was her name?”

“Wendy.” He said it automatically, without stopping to think about it first. Then he bit his lip, knowing he shouldn’t have answered. He didn’t talk about Wendy and the boys. Not to anyone.

She was silent for a moment, and Romano thought maybe she’d decided to grant him a reprieve.

“And what about your little boys?”

You don’t talk about them to anyone. You don’t talk about your family to anyone. You don’t talk?—

His thoughts were interrupted by his own raspy voice. “Justin and Jackson.” Why was he talking to her? Why was he compelled to answer her gentle questions? Why didn’t he just tell her to shut up and mind her own damned business?

“How old?”

“Justin was four. Jack was only two.”

“No.” Her hand rose to her lips and moisture filled her eyes. Then she touched him. There was no stopping her this time. Her hand covered his white-knuckled one on the steering wheel.

His foot hit the brake without his permission. The car jerked to a stop in the middle of the narrow road, and the pickup behind him blasted its horn before going around. He barely noticed. Grief blinded him, and the lump in his throat had swelled to encompass his entire chest. It was suffocating him, choking him. His hands on the wheel clenched tighter and he closed his eyes, shook his head. “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can,” she whispered, just as if she knew exactly what he was talking about, even when he wasn’t even sure he knew himself. “It’s all right. Come here.”

And he did. Damn him, he did. He turned toward her and let her pull him into her arms. She cradled his head on her shoulder, massaging the back of his neck with one hand, rubbing his back with the other. And it felt good, dammit. It felt good. So good that he put his arms around her waist and squeezed her closer. So good that he didn’t pull away when she turned her head and pressed her soft lips to his cheek. He felt the moisture, the warmth between his face and hers, and he wasn’t sure whose tears dampened his skin. It didn’t matter. He was sinking in a stagnant sea of guilt and fury and pain. And she was suddenly there, buoyant and light, just when he’d been about to drown. Her goodness washed over him like a cleansing, fragrant wave. Somewhere inside a voice whispered, Cling to her and save yourself, Romano. She’s your only hope.

And for one, insane moment, he did. He turned his face to her and slid his mouth over the satiny skin of her cheek and her jaw, and finally covered her lips. He felt them tremble and then part in gentle invitation. And it was an invitation he couldn’t turn down. He tasted and drank from her. She was sweetness and light, innocence and fire, and he’d been without those things for so damned long they were drugging to him. Addictive. All he wanted was more of her, more of her, more of her. Because to let her go would be to return to the bleakness of reality.

It was her whispery sigh that snapped him back to sanity. And as he returned to himself, he knew what he’d done. He couldn’t go on with this. It wouldn’t be fair to use her that way.

Clenching his jaw, he straightened away from her. He was ashamed and embarrassed by the emotions that had swamped him. His cheeks were still wet.

So were hers. And her eyes, round and wet with glycerin tears. Her swollen lips remained parted, and he wanted them again when he looked at them. So he looked away.

He was supposed to be tough, strong. He was supposed to be in charge, protecting her from White and his thugs. Not turning to her for comfort like one of her patients. Not punishing her by letting his pain become passion and spending all of it on her. She didn’t deserve that. What the hell was wrong with him? How did she manage to dig so deeply into his soul with those eyes, extracting his most painful secrets with no more than a word, a look?

“Sorry,” he muttered, blinking his eyes clear. He put the car into gear, started driving again.

“There’s nothing to?—”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Maybe it should,” she whispered. “Maybe you need someone right now.”

“What was it, a few hours ago, you told me not to touch you again?”

She lowered her head. “I didn’t know who you really were then.”

“You still don’t know who the hell I am. I don’t discuss my family with strangers, Lexi. I am human, though, so I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your distance.”

He didn’t have to look at her to know his words had hurt her. He knew she winced, could see the flash of pain in her eyes without even turning his head. Too bad. She was apparently one of those females who thought she could heal the world with her soft touch and her smile and a little TLC with her incredible body. And her eyes, don’t forget those. Well, she was wrong.

He was stuck with her for a few days, at most. Long enough to find the missing formula and send White to hell. That was it.

She was silent for a long time while he drove. He was, too, though his mind was working overtime. It took some effort to put his grief and the faces of his lost little boys back into the deep well of pain that used to be his heart.

It took a lot more effort to bring his thoughts back on track. A plan was what he needed. That was where his mind ought to be.

“Where are we going?” she asked him at last.

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